[Ed. note: The following piece was authored by The Legal Tease, of Sweet Hot Justice fame. Check out her other musings from Sweet Hot Justice here.]
I may not be a doctor, but I can spot a good epidemic when I see one. No, I’m not talking swine flu. Or Mad Cow. I’m talking about a bug that’s more contagious, more debilitating. A bug that seems to be tearing through scores of Big Law associates faster than you can say “stealth layoffs.” As much as I’ve tried to find one, there’s just no immunization you can get to ward this one off-and it looks like my fellow Big Law drones haven’t found one, either. The plague in question? Young female associates getting themselves embroiled in ridiculous sexual situations with vile, insane partners. And as far I can tell, a cure is still a long way off.
If you’ve spent any time clicking through the annals of humiliation catalogued on this site, you’ve probably noticed that I’m no stranger to this particular epidemic. The latest episode, though, focuses on my friend, Kirsten, a Big Law mid-level employment litigator trapped in the body of a hot stripper. You may remember Kirsten from her recent and unfortunate dip into married territory-as a visitor, not a local, alas. After that inevitably disastrous affair wrapped itself up, Kirsten did what any heart-bruised, if not quite heart-broken, Big Law associate would do: She planted herself at the office 24-7 and figured, hey, if I can’t get laid, I might as well get hours.
And she did. As luck would have it, she also got the attention of a new lateral employment partner to her firm, Martin. Now, let’s paint a quick picture here: When I say Kirsten is hot, I don’t mean lawyer-hot; I mean fantasy-league, blonde bombshell, silicone-enhanced hot-hot. Martin, on the other hand, could pass for Ben Stiller’s pudgy older cousin-on a good day. Still, when he began stopping by Kirsten’s office every night to chat, some combo of charm, partnership units and daddy issues sparked a crush in her. More than anything, though, after dating a string of unemployed aspiring man-whores, she cherished the attention. And when she found out that Martin had recently been handed divorce papers by his starter wife, she was smitten.
After a couple of weeks, the office pop-ins turned into weekly after-work cocktails. This was more than just flirtation, she told me; this was a real connection. They would have long, soulful talks about everything from firm politics to past relationships to the devastation of rejection. The only problem, though, she said, was that Martin was a supervising partner in her small department, and she felt he was holding back on making a move because he was, well, her boss…and an employment litigator. But when he asked if she wanted to accompany him to a black-tie fundraising event that the firm was co-sponsoring, she knew that they’d reached a turning point. This was his way of testing the waters, of stepping out with her in a formal, open setting. This was big.
Think you already know where this is going? Well, you don’t. Unless “meat” and “blood” are part of your prediction. Grab a napkin and keep reading, after the jump.
To say that Kirsten was obsessed with this fundraiser date would be a travesty of understatement. She bought a new, just-slutty-enough-for-work strapless cocktail dress and took the afternoon off to get ready. When she walked into the venue-a former meatpacking factory that had been converted into a swank hotel-she was looking good, feeling good and ready to take their relationship to the next level. Or at least make out a little.
When she got to the firm’s table, Martin was already there and stood up right away to give her a hello kiss on the cheek. She was glowing. Within minutes, Martin’s leg was brushing up against hers and then, as if fate was reading her mind, a waitress wearing a borderline-hooker satin micro-miniskirt suit appeared at their table with two drinks-a scotch rocks for Martin and a dirty martini for Kirsten. She was giddy. After so many years of losers who barely remembered her name, much less her favorite cocktail, this was finally a real man, a man with class, a man with-
“Babe, they didn’t have Johnnie Blue, sorry. This is Black, I think. Sorry. ”
Suddenly, the hooker waitress sat down at the empty chair next to Martin and took a sip of the martini-Kirsten’s martini. He looked at Kirsten without making eye contact. She felt his leg pull away. “Kirsten, this…this is my girlfriend, Carina.”
Kirsten sat there, frozen. Hooker waitress started fondling Martin’s neck.
“And Carina, this is one of our up-and-coming superstars, Kirsten.”
The woman extended her hand to Kirsten across Martin’s chest. “Hey, I’m Carina. I love your necklace.”
“Th- thanks.” Kirsten looked down at the silver charm necklace she’d bought just for tonight. Her head was spinning. This had to be some sort of joke.
No such luck. Over the next half-hour, Kirsten learned that Carina, a forty-something former “dancer” with breast implants so big they made Kirsten’s look like mosquito bites, worked in the accounting department at Martin’s former firm. They had started dating-wouldn’t you know it?-right after Martin’s wife left him earlier this year.
The more the night dragged on, the more Kirsten wondered how she’d managed to let this happen. She was a pro at dating douchebags and over the years had developed an unwitting expertise in spotting the red flags early on when a guy was playing around-with her or on her. But this one had totally blindsided her. What was he trying to prove? Was this some sort of partner-associate power play? He’s an employment litigator for the love of God-could he really be this insane? The worst part, though: She was still attracted to him. But when, after a few rounds of drinks, she felt Martin’s hand gingerly take hold of her knee-and felt a wave of desire with a repulsion chaser rush through her body-she realized she had to get out of there.
She excused herself to the bathroom. She wasn’t going to be humiliated by this vile idiot and his inflatable satin-covered creature-or at least, she wasn’t going to let him see that she was. She’d go splash some water on her face, beg off, go home and drown herself in Ambien. At least she could leave this horror show with her dignity intact. That, of course, was before she found herself half-naked in the middle of the lobby, licking blood of her boss’s neck.
Live the rest of the nightmare over at Sweet Hot Justice.